Twodaysafterthis,whenMaryopenedhereyesshesatuprightinbedimmediately,andcalledtoMartha. “Lookatthemoor!Lookatthemoor!” Therainstormhadendedandthegraymistandcloudshadbeensweptawayinthenightbythewind. Thewinditselfhadceasedandabrilliant,deepblueskyarchedhighoverthemoorland. Never,neverhadMarydreamedofaskysoblue. InIndiaskieswerehotandblazing;thiswasofadeepcoolbluewhichalmostseemedtosparklelikethewatersofsomelovelybottomlesslake,andhereandthere,high,highinthearchedbluenessfloatedsmallcloudsofsnow-whitefleece. Thefar-reachingworldofthemooritselflookedsoftlyblueinsteadofgloomypurple-blackorawfuldrearygray. “Aye,”saidMarthawithacheerfulgrin.“Th’storm’soverforabit. Itdoeslikethisatthistimeo’th’year. Itgoesoffinanightlikeitwaspretendin’ithadneverbeenherean’nevermeanttocomeagain. That’sbecauseth’springtime’sonitsway. It’salongwayoffyet,butit’scomin’.” “IthoughtperhapsitalwaysrainedorlookeddarkinEngland,”Marysaid. “Eh!no!”saidMartha,sittinguponherheelsamongherblackleadbrushes.“Nowto’th’soart!” “Whatdoesthatmean?”askedMaryseriously.InIndiathenativesspokedifferentdialectswhichonlyafewpeopleunderstood,soshewasnotsurprisedwhenMarthausedwordsshedidnotknow. Marthalaughedasshehaddonethefirstmorning. “Therenow,”shesaid.“I’vetalkedbroadYorkshireagainlikeMrs.MedlocksaidImustn’t. ‘Nowto’th’soart’means‘nothin’-of-the-sort,’”slowlyandcarefully,“butittakessolongtosayit. Yorkshire’sth’sunniestplaceonearthwhenitissunny. Itoldtheetha’dliketh’moorafterabit. Justyouwaittillyouseeth’gold-coloredgorseblossomsan’th’blossomso’th’broom,an’th’heatherflowerin’,allpurplebells,an’hundredso’butterfliesflutterin’an’beeshummin’an’skylarkssoarin’upan’singin’. You’llwanttogetoutonitassunrisean’liveoutonitalldaylikeDickondoes.” “CouldIevergetthere?”askedMarywistfully,lookingthroughherwindowatthefar-offblue.Itwassonewandbigandwonderfulandsuchaheavenlycolor. “Idon’tknow,”answeredMartha.“Tha’sneverusedtha’legssincetha’wasborn,itseemstome.Tha’couldn’twalkfivemile.It’sfivemiletoourcottage.” “Ishouldliketoseeyourcottage.” Marthastaredatheramomentcuriouslybeforeshetookupherpolishingbrushandbegantorubthegrateagain. Shewasthinkingthatthesmallplainfacedidnotlookquiteassouratthismomentasithaddonethefirstmorningshesawit. ItlookedjustatriflelikelittleSusanAnn’swhenshewantedsomethingverymuch. “I’llaskmymotheraboutit,”shesaid. “She’soneo’themthatnearlyalwaysseesawaytodothings. It’smydayouttodayan’I’mgoin’home.Eh!Iamglad.Mrs.Medlockthinksaloto’mother.Perhapsshecouldtalktoher.” “Ilikeyourmother,”saidMary. “Ishouldthinktha’did,”agreedMartha,polishingaway. “I’veneverseenher,”saidMary. “No,tha’hasn’t,”repliedMartha. Shesatuponherheelsagainandrubbedtheendofhernosewiththebackofherhandasifpuzzledforamoment,butsheendedquitepositively. “Well,she’sthatsensiblean’hardworkin’an’goodnaturedan’cleanthatnoonecouldhelplikin’herwhetherthey’dseenherornot. WhenI’mgoin’hometoheronmydayoutIjustjumpforjoywhenI’mcrossin’themoor.” “IlikeDickon,”addedMary.“AndI’veneverseenhim.” “Well,”saidMarthastoutly,“I’vetoldtheethatth’verybirdslikeshiman’th’rabbitsan’wildsheepan’ponies,an’th’foxesthemselves. Iwonder,”staringatherreflectively,“whatDickonwouldthinkofthee?” “Hewouldn’tlikeme,”saidMaryinherstiff,coldlittleway.“Noonedoes.” Marthalookedreflectiveagain. “Howdoestha’likethysel’?”sheinquired,reallyquiteasifshewerecurioustoknow. Maryhesitatedamomentandthoughtitover. “Notatall—really,”sheanswered.“ButIneverthoughtofthatbefore.” Marthagrinnedalittleasifatsomehomelyrecollection. “Mothersaidthattomeonce,”shesaid. “Shewasatherwash-tuban’Iwasinabadtemperan’talkin’illoffolk,an’sheturnsroundonmean’says:‘Tha’youngvixen,tha’! Theretha’standssayin’tha’doesn’tlikethisonean’tha’doesn’tlikethatone.Howdoestha’likethysel’?’ Itmademelaughan’itbroughtmetomysensesinaminute.” ShewentawayinhighspiritsassoonasshehadgivenMaryherbreakfast. Shewasgoingtowalkfivemilesacrossthemoortothecottage,andshewasgoingtohelphermotherwiththewashinganddotheweek’sbakingandenjoyherselfthoroughly. Maryfeltlonelierthaneverwhensheknewshewasnolongerinthehouse. Shewentoutintothegardenasquicklyaspossible,andthefirstthingshedidwastorunroundandroundthefountainflowergardententimes. Shecountedthetimescarefullyandwhenshehadfinishedshefeltinbetterspirits. Thesunshinemadethewholeplacelookdifferent. Thehigh,deep,blueskyarchedoverMisselthwaiteaswellasoverthemoor,andshekeptliftingherfaceandlookingupintoit,tryingtoimaginewhatitwouldbeliketoliedownononeofthelittlesnow-whitecloudsandfloatabout. Shewentintothefirstkitchen-gardenandfoundBenWeatherstaffworkingtherewithtwoothergardeners. Thechangeintheweatherseemedtohavedonehimgood.Hespoketoherofhisownaccord.“Springtime’scomin,’”hesaid.“Cannottha’smellit?” Marysniffedandthoughtshecould. “Ismellsomethingniceandfreshanddamp,”shesaid. “That’sth’goodrichearth,”heanswered,diggingaway. “It’sinagoodhumormakin’readytogrowthings.It’sgladwhenplantin’timecomes. It’sdullinth’winterwhenit’sgotnowttodo. Inth’flowergardensouttherethingswillbestirrin’downbelowinth’dark.Th’sun’swarmin’‘em. You’llseebitso’greenspikesstickin’outo’th’blackearthafterabit.” “Whatwilltheybe?”askedMary. “Crocusesan’snowdropsan’daffydowndillys.Hastha’neverseenthem?” “No.Everythingishot,andwet,andgreenaftertherainsinIndia,”saidMary.“AndIthinkthingsgrowupinanight.” “Thesewon’tgrowupinanight,”saidWeatherstaff.“Tha’llhavetowaitfor‘em. They’llpokeupabithigherhere,an’pushoutaspikemorethere,an’uncurlaleafthisdayan’anotherthat.Youwatch‘em.” “Iamgoingto,”answeredMary. Verysoonsheheardthesoftrustlingflightofwingsagainandsheknewatoncethattherobinhadcomeagain. Hewasverypertandlively,andhoppedaboutsoclosetoherfeet,andputhisheadononesideandlookedathersoslylythatsheaskedBenWeatherstaffaquestion. “Doyouthinkheremembersme?”shesaid. “Remembersthee!”saidWeatherstaffindignantly. “Heknowseverycabbagestumpinth’gardens,letaloneth’people. He’sneverseenalittlewenchherebefore,an’he’sbentonfindin’outallaboutthee. Tha’snoneedtotrytohideanythingfromhim.” “Arethingsstirringdownbelowinthedarkinthatgardenwherehelives?”Maryinquired. “Whatgarden?”gruntedWeatherstaff,becomingsurlyagain. “Theonewheretheoldrose-treesare.”Shecouldnothelpasking,becauseshewantedsomuchtoknow. “Arealltheflowersdead,ordosomeofthemcomeagaininthesummer?Arethereeveranyroses?” “Askhim,”saidBenWeatherstaff,hunchinghisshoulderstowardtherobin.“He’stheonlyoneasknows.Nooneelsehasseeninsideitfortenyear’.” Tenyearswasalongtime,Marythought.Shehadbeenborntenyearsago. Shewalkedaway,slowlythinking.ShehadbeguntolikethegardenjustasshehadbeguntoliketherobinandDickonandMartha’smother.ShewasbeginningtolikeMartha,too. Thatseemedagoodmanypeopletolike—whenyouwerenotusedtoliking. Shethoughtoftherobinasoneofthepeople. Shewenttoherwalkoutsidethelong,ivy-coveredwalloverwhichshecouldseethetree-tops;andthesecondtimeshewalkedupanddownthemostinterestingandexcitingthinghappenedtoher,anditwasallthroughBenWeatherstaff’srobin. Sheheardachirpandatwitter,andwhenshelookedatthebareflower-bedatherleftsidetherehewashoppingaboutandpretendingtopeckthingsoutoftheearthtopersuadeherthathehadnotfollowedher. Butsheknewhehadfollowedherandthesurprisesofilledherwithdelightthatshealmosttrembledalittle. “Youdorememberme!”shecriedout.“Youdo!Youareprettierthananythingelseintheworld!” Shechirped,andtalked,andcoaxedandhehopped,andflirtedhistailandtwittered.Itwasasifheweretalking. Hisredwaistcoatwaslikesatinandhepuffedhistinybreastoutandwassofineandsograndandsoprettythatitwasreallyasifhewereshowingherhowimportantandlikeahumanpersonarobincouldbe. MistressMaryforgotthatshehadeverbeencontraryinherlifewhenheallowedhertodrawcloserandclosertohim,andbenddownandtalkandtrytomakesomethinglikerobinsounds. Oh!tothinkthatheshouldactuallylethercomeasneartohimasthat! Heknewnothingintheworldwouldmakeherputoutherhandtowardhimorstartlehimintheleasttiniestway. Heknewitbecausehewasarealperson—onlynicerthananyotherpersonintheworld. Shewassohappythatshescarcelydaredtobreathe. Theflower-bedwasnotquitebare.Itwasbareofflowersbecausetheperennialplantshadbeencutdownfortheirwinterrest,butthereweretallshrubsandlowoneswhichgrewtogetheratthebackofthebed,andastherobinhoppedaboutunderthemshesawhimhopoverasmallpileoffreshlyturnedupearth.Hestoppedonittolookforaworm. Theearthhadbeenturnedupbecauseadoghadbeentryingtodigupamoleandhehadscratchedquiteadeephole. Marylookedatit,notreallyknowingwhytheholewasthere,andasshelookedshesawsomethingalmostburiedinthenewly-turnedsoil. Itwassomethinglikearingofrustyironorbrassandwhentherobinflewupintoatreenearbysheputoutherhandandpickedtheringup. Itwasmorethanaring,however;itwasanoldkeywhichlookedasifithadbeenburiedalongtime. MistressMarystoodupandlookedatitwithanalmostfrightenedfaceasithungfromherfinger. “Perhapsithasbeenburiedfortenyears,”shesaidinawhisper.“Perhapsitisthekeytothegarden!” 
